


In This World and Beyond

by cassanah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassanah/pseuds/cassanah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over mountains and plains and forests he’d given it, his Hobbit’s quiet devotion, and it could no more be bought with purest mithril than torn away by all that followed after, the madness and the deceit, and tears, falling quick and hot on cooling skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.  
> ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

He’d been the King’s man since long before either of them had ever hoped for anything more than a dream. It was on the long road ending in a little chest of gold, and dusk’s last light falling across still fingers clasped about a sword from Gondolin, where Thorin Oakenshield had earned his friendship. Over mountains and plains and forests he’d given it, his Hobbit’s quiet devotion, and it could no more be bought with purest mithril than torn away by all that followed after, the madness and the deceit, and tears, falling quick and hot on cooling skin.

It was not accurate to call the ill-fitting shirt of mail a symbol of Thorin’s gratitude. In so many years, Bilbo had not forgotten the circumstances of its giving. It was only that ‘affection’ seemed too maudlin a word for it, a rewriting of history that suited not a simple hobbit from the Shire. He remembered it well.

Bilbo was in his fiftieth year when Smaug still held dominion over the far-away halls of Erebor. His own Hobbit-hole was tastefully and comfortably appointed, his neighbours agreeable and not overly nosey, and his days cheerful, if a touch solitary. The days had thus so far marched by in orderly fashion, and in his books and his plants and his food Bilbo thought he understood contentment. That same year Thorin son of Thrain, rightful King Under the Mountain (Beggar King some proclaimed him behind their hands), feasted his 195th birthday with stale bread and cold mutton in a village of Men, the smell of the forge still on his skin. Far away from his sister and her sons, the day’s small injustices souring on his tongue and loneliness burrowing like a worm in his heart, he’d smoothed out his father’s map and turned his mind to glory and fortune.

The Dwarves were loud and impolite and smelled of stone and metal. They were as unHobbit-like as it was possible for decent folk to be, and the part of Bilbo that was fussy and judgmental wished them and their tales of treasure and adventure far, far away. Yet he’d hovered in the back, eyes and ears taking it all in hungrily, as they roared and laughed and sang by turn, united in all the mayhem by loyalty to their exiled King. Thorin was then in the summer of his life, the last scion of a dying house, standing proud and immoveable. Yet hope curled like a green growing thing within him, and his blue eyes shone with it in that first meeting. There on the doorsteps of Bag End, taller than all the other dwarves and donning raiment that had no doubt been princely when new, he'd seemed to Bilbo some figure stepped out of old songs of Heroes and Destiny. And thus it was Memory that rounded the Company out to fourteen, of dormant middle-aged yearning for something beyond the commonplace.

Such were the circumstances that delivered Bilbo Baggins of the Shire to the edges of the Misty Mountains, his sword clutched in shaking hands, naught but his weak, plump body shielding Thorin’s still form from the Defiler’s rage. It would not be the first time he was sure that Death had come for him. If a hundred years passed he would not be able to name the impulse that had driven him to such madness.

Afterward, with many claps on the shoulder and the nods and grins of his fellow companions, and even a look from Gandalf that spoke of approving satisfaction, Bilbo had warmed his hands on the dying fire, the hard ground of the Carrock pressing into his backside, and remembered with a shudder how fragile the veil between life and death. The others were mostly asleep; save for Balin and Dwalin, who were speaking quietly to one another a few paces away.

“That was a rare thing to see today,” said Balin, who had picked his way over to settle down beside Bilbo. He, too, looked into the flames. “We did not look for courage in our burglar.”

“Not courage,” Bilbo corrected, for the simple words had brought a warmth into his cheeks. “Stupidity. Rashness. Whatever you call it. I was just the nearest one to him.”

“ _You_ were not the rash one.” Balin looked over to the shapes of Fili and Kili, bracketing either side of their uncle. “I have not seen him so impetuous in many years. Since Azanulbizar. It is always the old hurts that return to sting us… I wonder whether they will ever truly heal.”

Bilbo had heard the tale. In his spare time, during long, boring marches across featureless plains, the Hobbit had conjured images of the young Prince charging the line of orcs beneath the ruins of the great Dwarven city. Thorin would have been barely battle-tested, his beard still but a scruff at fifty-seven, the loss of his home still fresh and terrible in his mind. Had the same passion Bilbo had seen today, borne of grief and rage, blazed in his eyes even then?

Despite the oft less than friendly manner of the exiled king, Bilbo could not help but admire him. Yes, he was brooding and prickly and perhaps a little vain of his own importance. Yet their encounter with the Trolls had shown him that the Dwarf was loyal to the point of fault, even to a member of his Company he had only known for a fortnight. Bilbo had observed his watchful eye lingering often on Fili and Kili and the gruff embraces he gave them, belying the depths of his love for his sister-sons. He was stubborn, and prideful, and good and honourable. Even later, after all that had passed between them, Bilbo had never changed this opinion of Thorin.

“You saved his life, my boy.” Balin was looking at him, breaking him from his remembrance. “That is no small thing. It will be remembered before the end.”

“Mr. Baggins,” Thorin had pronounced earlier, after their improbable rescue. The customary coolness in his voice was gone; he breathed hard with effort, and some unspoken emotion had kindled in his blue gaze. Despite the reserved bearing he presented, Bilbo was beginning even then to see flashes of the true heart of Thorin Oakenshield. “I should never have doubted you.” There was no long speech of thanks, but Bilbo saw it in his tired smile, lit with an unfamiliar warmth. A spark of pride had flared up inside him, though he’d demurred modestly in the next moment.

When next they spoke, in Beorn’s house, Bilbo was standing in his gardens, examining a bush of rhododendrons with extraordinarily large blooms. Even his mother’s prize-winners had not grown to such a size, nor flowered in such exuberance.

“Lovely. And it’s not even spring…” he muttered to himself.

“Some magic pervades this corner of the land.” Bilbo straightened up, tugging on his suspenders in surprise. Behind him, Thorin inclined his head in greeting. “I, too, have explored the grounds of our generous host. I have yet to see the richness of this soil elsewhere in all my travels. It is in the air, or perhaps the water, as well. The animals are all of enormous size and intelligence.”

“I wouldn’t mind bringing some of that magic back home,” said Bilbo. “My garden lies parched and untended; it will need all the help it can get.”

“You share the skinchanger’s love for small creatures and green plants.” It was clear from Thorin’s tone that he did not. But neither did it bear condemnation, only fact: “We are different, you and I, in that way.”

“Do Dwarves not hold the least interest in such things?”

“Where in the mountains would we plant gardens? Or house animals? They would sicken and die. Sunlight and warm air are not found in our halls. No, our love lies in stone. From bare rock we can tease out gems of rare splendour, and metals of strength and beauty not found elsewhere in nature.”

A week ago, Bilbo would never have dared to ask. But Thorin spoke simply, without arrogance. A purity rang in his voice, the guileless passion of the artist. “So is it the search for precious things that brings you greater pleasure, or the treasure itself?”

Evidently he was not prepared for the question. But then a small slow smile drew up the corners of his mouth. In the summer light and sweet breezes of Beorn's country he seemed younger and less weary. “Our pride lies in our workmanship. To dwell overlong on the end result would be deemed by some as vanity.” He stepped forward, briskly. “I sought you out for a reason. Were we in vicinity of a halfway decent forge, you would have a proper set of brass.”

Within his calloused palm lay a handful of carved oaken buttons.

“Thank you,” said Bilbo, pleased beyond expectation by this unlooked-for kindness. “I and my long suffering vest very much appreciate it. I'm sorry to say I have nothing to give you in return. Well –” He stopped, and plucked a fine specimen of a flower. It was brilliant pink, as colourful as his own cheeks at that moment. “It is a green growing thing, to be sure, but they have their own beauty.”

Thorin took it graciously enough, commenting: “I ask for nothing but your continued services in this venture.”

Twice more he would pluck his band of Dwarves – and when, exactly, had they become _his_ band? – from failure and potential loss of life and limb. After the darkness of Mirkwood and the dungeons of the Elvenking, the Bilbo Baggins of half a year past would not have known this new self.

“You’ve quite earned a few days of respite,” Thorin said to him, in the hours after the great feast the Master of Laketown had thrown them.

“I daresay we all have,” Bilbo returned, making room for him where he sat before the fire, feet up against the warm fire in the fine house furnished by the townpeople.

“You have done well,” said Thorin simply.

“Indeed. We might yet face the continued loving hospitality of Thranduil's house, were it not for Lady Luck and some very delicate burglarizing by yours truly.” Ah, how young he had been then, and his words bold, for the light of the fire on Thorin’s face had made his eyes shine like two jewels as he smiled. All of them had been in good spirits; the promise of gold and the possibility of success had been more potent than wine, though there’d been enough of that as well that night.

Thorin raised an eyebrow, but by then Bilbo could read every expression on his face, and he caught the infinitesimal quirk of the other’s lips. “Luck favours fools, or so my mother always said. Long may it continue to do so! We will share in the rewards of our quest, and you will return to your Shire with wonders and wealth to last a lifetime and beyond. It is only fitting. A princely reward for great services rendered.”

“Well, that is kind of you to say,” said Bilbo with a smile at the grandness of the speech. It seemed to be the only way Thorin talked. And because he was a cautious creature by nature, and could not fully believe, as the others had begun to believe, that their quest would come to anything, he added: “In any case, whatever happens, may the friendship between us be payment enough.”

Thorin had looked down at Bilbo for a long moment, and then taken another draught of ale from the stein in his hand. The Hobbit was in the middle of formulating a clever response to that little ‘luck favours fools’ comment when Thorin reached out for a lock of his hair, rubbing it between his fingers as if examining its quality and texture. It was soft and curly, as Hobbit hair tended to be, and a golden brown in colour. “Your hair has grown long, Burglar. It would be wise to braid it… so that it does not get in the way.” He let go. “Though you may not need it. There is more to you than luck and a pair of quiet feet.”

Bilbo found no ready response to that. Thorin shifted, so that the distance between them expanded, and Bilbo realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled. The other continued talking without seeming to notice.

A week later, Bilbo would recall the unnamed feeling of that moment as he wandered the echoing halls of Erebor. These days, Thorin’s gaze was oft turned inward, his face glowing pale in the light of the truly enormous treasure hoard Smaug had left behind. Outside their walls, men and Elves prepared to besiege the ancient stronghold. Bilbo had quite an unfavourable opinion of besiegement, whether or not it was not necessary, as it certainly was not in this case. The Arkenstone bumped against his ribs and sometimes he imagined it even burned against his skin when touched, as if exacting revenge for keeping it from its rightful master. The guilt and the worry had melted away the weight that good food and restful nights had achieved in Laketown.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin had called to him the eve before the army outside was to march on them. His grandfather’s crown was upon his brow, and the royal garb fitting for a king, but Bilbo thought that for all the beauty of his bearing, his eyes were shuttered and his face shadowed. “Walk with me.” They went out amongst the battlements beneath the stars. It was not yet winter, but Bilbo shivered to see the Elven campsite in the distance, their tents in orderly rows like toy blocks, fires lit at intervals.

“You have been my faithful friend in all this time,” began Thorin. He sounded almost hesitant. “It pains me that you are unhappy.”

 _That_ had surprised Bilbo. He had been beginning to think that Thorin did not notice anything anymore, except the treasure. “I’m – well, you know my feelings regarding the situation. We’ve spoken of this.” And it had not gone well. Thorin’s anger and disappointment had stung him keenly, and it was only news of Dain’s coming that softened the Dwarven king. Bilbo was too tired and too heartsick for another argument.

“You know I would not risk the lives of my kin and my friends on a whim. I ask only for your trust in me, as I do in you.”

What was it about Thorin that made it so difficult to lie to him? Numerous times now Bilbo had nearly blurted out the truth about his secret.

“Can you guarantee we’ll live through this?” asked Bilbo quietly.

“We go to war,” said the other sternly. “To exact a promise of survival is to tempt fate.”

Bilbo shook his head, grieved by the utter certainty in his voice. “Then you trade all of our lives, those of your nephews and your friends and your own, for a pile of gold.”

Thorin was taken aback, that was plain to see, and his handsome face was tight with injury. His blue eyes were hard, and a wildness had crept into them of late that Bilbo misliked more than anything else.

“You do not mean that, for you do not understand,” said Thorin at last. “It is not mere gold that I defend, but the memory of my forefathers, and the future of our people –” he laid a heavy hand on the stone battlement itself: “All this, all we have fought for and struggled for in our long years of exile – that is what I defend. No longer will my sister work her fingers to the bone, nor her sons demean themselves for food and roof over their heads, nor my people live in fear that their fortunes will not tide them through the next season.”

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, and he was now standing very close, for the pain in his King’s face was not to be borne, and the urge to comfort was as natural to the Hobbit as breathing. He spoke the next words without knowing he was going to: “You know that I am yours. To command, to defend your life with my own.”

Thorin held his gaze, blue eyes to brown; but it was Bilbo who looked away first. The Arkenstone seemed to grow heavier against his chest. When he turned back, Thorin had reached in some inner pocket and drawn out something that glittered in the night.

“For you, Bilbo Baggins.”

The mithril shirt was light and finely crafted in his hands, and so beautiful Bilbo almost refused to wear it.

“Hobbits do not belong in war,” said Thorin, almost angrily, “but since I have dragged you into this, I will protect you to the best of my ability.”

Bilbo nodded.

Thorin watched as he donned the shirt, though it was overlarge, and overlong. “Keep close to me, my friend,” he said unexpectedly. He put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, heavy and warm like sun-heated stone, and despite himself Bilbo felt his blood quicken beneath his skin. “It will be over soon.”

But before it was over, the gold had drawn away the best parts of Thorin, and Bilbo Baggins found himself trapped between his vows and his King’s life. And if Thorin forgot himself as the light of the Arkenstone pierced his eyes from where it shone in Bard’s hands, Bilbo could hardly blame him.

The loyalty of Dwarves is as legendary as their stubbornness. Bilbo had come to find one as endearing as the other was frustrating. Even as Thorin lay dying, his speech was lordly. All of these words and wasted breath, just to tell him he was forgiven. Bilbo wanted his forgiveness rather less than his continued presence in the world of the living. He would rather have endured a lifetime of hatred. He thought the other understood this, for there was a shadow of a smile there beneath the grimace of mortal agony. But Thorin had lost too much blood. There was much he had lost that day.

“Tell me you are still mine,” Thorin demanded, his eyes bright in a pale face, commanding to the very last. “Whatever else has passed between us, tell me that.”

Bilbo had been his since the moment he’d leapt before Azog, with no thought but his King on his mind. His answer was rather simpler.

“Always.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A safe fairyland is untrue to all worlds.  
> ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

Evening came, slow and languid as summer herself. The flames sank low in the logs as the hours ticked by. Bilbo had pulled his chair in close to the fire, for Bag End remained cool on summer days and self-sufficiently warm in winter, a humble feat of engineering that many a Dwarf had once commented upon with admiration. The Hobbit was plumper than at the most recent instance Gandalf had seen him, and the dark circles beneath his eyes had faded. The pinched, weary look of their last parting had left his face.

It had been late in the afternoon when Gandalf swept into Bag End as he had done all those many months ago. 

“My dearest Hobbit, you marvel of creatures! You have neither written nor sent word since last I laid eyes on you – and here I find you having tea, calm as you please, as if the previous twenty-eight and a half months had been but a dream.”

Of course, Bilbo quite nearly dropped his plate in shock. He hurried over to give him a tight squeeze, his short stature in no way an impediment to the strength of his embrace. “Gandalf! But – what news? How good to see you!”

As it turned out, there hadn’t been plans, and even if there had been, Bilbo promptly put out a sign that said “NO visitors!” Next he carried out a decanter of good Southfarthing red wine, which was said, Bilbo told him, to be nearly as good as Laketown wine. Then followed a cheese plate, with a large variety of blue cheese and Shire farmhouse cheddar and even a small round of Rohirrim draft-horse milk. While Gandalf was nibbling on a wedge of the last item, Bilbo brought in two brown loaves of seedcake and a small platter of butter, all the while chattering with nary a pause for breath.

Oh, there were so many things to talk about! All about Bag End and the state he’d found it upon his return (a good thirty minutes were spent on Lobelia) and the multitude of small changes in the Shire, and the books he was currently reading and the ones he hoped to read. Gandalf heard all about the manuscript on historical Elvish-Hobbit friendships that was currently halfway throughout its first draft, and most especially Bilbo's plans to visit Rivendell in the coming autumn to seek out their library. He was most looking forward to the journey and had already begun packing provisions.

So though it was true that Bilbo had not written, Gandalf got a good idea of what his friend had been up to in all that time.

“You are unchanged, my good fellow,” he said to Bilbo, who paused, wearing an expression that said he was not sure whether he was being complimented or insulted (as was often the case when conversing with Gandalf). “And yet, you are wholly altered.”

Bilbo laughed at this, grasping his meaning immediately. His eyes were perhaps a little misty, but he said, with a touch of his customary smartness, “And you, my friend, have not aged a single day! I swear, that green stain there – yes, there – was present in that exact shade and configuration the last time your tall head darkened my halls.”

“I am a Wizard!” said Gandalf with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I do not concern myself with matters of laundry.”

Bilbo then beseeched Gandalf for news of his travels. For many hours they talked and laughed, as they had done on several long nights whilst journeying to Erebor, when the foundation of their friendship had first been laid. Bilbo cheered when he heard about Elrond's hunting party routing out the last of the Goblin folk, scattering the broken horde to deep dark places (“Good riddance! It was their own downfall that they have become too used to terrorizing innocents.”), and he laughed with joy at the news that Beorn had found himself a wife, a woman of the hardy Northern tribes of Men (“I hope he will have many little Bear babies of his own!”). He smiled at the news of Dale's reconstruction, and Bard's coronation, and the summit of the three kings last autumn: Bard, Dain, and Thranduil, who had between the three of them managed to broker a trade agreement that would be equally profitable for all. Evidently he knew a little about it, from the Dwarven side of things, for it was a fact that Balin wrote him every season.

Bilbo was shaking his head slowly and smiling. “I have been at home for many moons, sorting out and settling all the affairs that were left behind on my journey, and I am only now at the tail end of that! So many things have passed out there in the wide world, but here in the the Shire, all seems to remain timeless.”

“That has always been one of its best qualities,” said Gandalf.

“Yes, but I’m developing quite a name as a trouble-maker,” Bilbo retorted, eyes crinkled with quiet laughter. “I must not take all the credit for myself, however.”

Gandalf had looked innocently at him, protesting with a puff of his pipe, “Why, I don’t know what you could possibly mean…!”

At any rate, the night was late. The two of them nursed flasks of spiced wine. All in all, it had been a quiet evening. This was not, as Bilbo told him, a usual state of affairs. Despite his strange new reputation (as he’d recounted with no small amount of glee), his house beneath the hill had seen no shortage of visitors, whether it was neighbours popping in out of curiosity, distant relatives sniffing out this long-lost-now-found relation, or the neighbourhood children looking for a story and a handful of candied plums.

“You look well, my friend,” said Gandalf presently. The Hobbit stirred, and said:

“Yes, I am.” And then he amended: “Or at least, I will be.”

“Good,” said Gandalf. And he saw without seeming to watch as secret musings flickered upon the other’s face.

Bilbo started a sentence, interrupted himself, and then said: “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I find myself thinking of Rivendell often, of late. When I was there in the last leg of my journey home from Erebor… it was like falling into a pool of clear water after a long race in the desert. I ate, and slept, and read, and during my spare time I walked in the star light of that wondrous place. And on those nights when the moon shone like a white jewel in the night, I found that my host shared my habits.”

Gandalf had never been surprised by Elrond's fondness for Bilbo. Despite appearances, they were alike in nature.

“He’d had a hundred more lifetimes than I; and will have a hundred more. Eventually I found myself asking him about death. Did he believe that we continue on after life? That death is not the end of whatever it is we are?” Bilbo laughed a little, and said, as if aware of the now sombre mood of the conversation, “It’s hardly a question you can ask at Aunt Myrtle’s Sunday morning garden party!”

Gandalf raised his eyebrows. “Do Shire-folk not have your own tales of the afterlife?”

“Oh, we have ghost stories and the like. And everyone repents of something on their deathbed, that is no joke! But Hobbits are simple folk. This life is the only one we have, and all the more precious for it. Or so I have believed all my life.”

That was reasonable enough; Gandalf nodded.

“In any case, I pressed him: _You are wise, Master Elrond. You have traveled far, done many things, seen many more. I have heard sung the tale of Eru and Aulë. I have read a little on Valinor and the Hall of Mandos. I am asking for_ your _opinion.”_

Gandalf saw him as he must have appeared to Elrond, his brave young friend with the bright eyes and resolute mouth. For fresh grief must have beat in his heart like a wounded thrush, and he would not be deterred even before one of the High Lords of the Land.

“He gave me the answer,” said Bilbo, “which you no doubt know as well. I think he had foreseen my question to some extent. Elros, his twin, had _chosen_ mortality. And when Lord Elrond spoke of him there was still sorrow there, although the magnitude of time since his passing is beyond my conception. But to him… he remembered his brother’s voice, and their childhood games, and the love between them, as if but a day had passed.”

For a moment a shadow of grief passed across Bilbo’s face. Gandalf guessed at its meaning easily enough, but could find little to say that he was sure Bilbo had not already heard. It had been a grand funeral, after all, fit for a King, and many moving speeches spoken by better orators than him. A neat little bookend to a story that was already becoming a legend.

Gandalf said: “And there was your other answer.”

“Yes, well. _That_ cannot be helped. So it is with life,” said Bilbo, and he sighed, and looked into the fire. He puffed on his pipe a little, and absently sent a little smoke ring into the fire.

Gandalf, watching him, waited. Slowly life crept back into Bilbo's eyes, and a small smile curved his lips.

“I’m glad to see you, and to have spoken to you! I’m sorry I haven’t written, Gandalf! There are many things I wanted to tell you, but none of them seemed important enough to put in a letter. Little things, foolish things that have made me want to laugh or cry or think, how strange. Things that are easily forgotten when the moment has passed, but which a friend might remember. But you see, I’m trying to curb my tendency to chatter, whether in spoken or written form.”

Bilbo's words were mischievous, but the tone of his voice was more thoughtful than not, and his dark, clever eyes shone brightly. Here was the essence of him: this light-filled, golden soul humming with love and joy and loss. Little wonder that Thorin, for all his mortal pride, had cleaved to the little Hobbit. Gandalf, who had glimpsed beyond the flat planes of the earthly world and watched empires born and die, who had wandered to the four corners of the known world and beyond, was once again surprised at the beauty and chaos of mortality, the fast flitting flashes in which they lived.

He raised an eyebrow, mock stern, to all the world just an old man with a distinctive hat and a walking stick. “Is that a fact?”

“Believe it or not. I am resolved to not be so foolish in my old age.”

“Ha!” snorted Gandalf, but it was without heat. “Silence is not in your nature, my dear friend! And neither is misery.”

“Were it not for you, I believe, I would not lack for either.”

The room was very dark now, for the coals themselves were dimming, but Gandalf read the smile on Bilbo’s face and felt a measure of reassurance. His Burglar was not the same Hobbit he had once been. But there was no doubt he would be, as he had said himself, quite alright.

*

That night, Bilbo dreamt of other lives. In his goose-down bed in the far bedroom of Bag End he felt the lights of other worlds, other suns and moons and stars passing over his eyes, marking the years.

He lived a life where the King Under the Mountain and his kin did not fall after all. Defeated was his foe, and this time he prevailed against his injuries, and thus lived to see his kingdom restored. They would have had, the two of them, a lifetime of steady friendship, as solid as the rock from which the Dwarven race are hewn. He dreamt of visits to the Mountain where no green things took hold, only precious rocks and cold metal, where a pair of blue eyes smiled, and a strong hand gripped his shoulder, and laughter, free and unfettered by grief, rang out again in stone halls. It would have been a good life, a happy one.

There were other lives.

One where the fell dragon was never outwitted, in which the Company returned home empty-handed but still thirteen in number. Whole of spirit if not in wealth. Thorin would remain in exile, but there was honour in honest work. And slowly the fortunes of his people would have recovered, would have prospered and carved out a new power in the West, and a weighty burden might have lifted from his King’s heart. Perhaps the two of them would have grown closer over time, or perhaps the long distance between them and the cares of their years would have dimmed the earlier promise of their friendship. But it - he - would have been enough.

It is impossible not to picture that last, other future, the forbidden one, as taking place in sunlit gardens and dappled forests and before the crackling fires of home; as being full of small hushed moments amidst noble quests and great battles; as a boundless, sweeping love unfurling from a friendship so fierce and constant it would abide with them even into death, and through whatever lay beyond.

There were countless lives Bilbo had known. And in all of them, but one, lived Thorin Oakenshield.


End file.
